Like Time
by corngirl-jo
Summary: SarkSyd. A sequel to "Aflame".
1. Default Chapter

**LIKE TIME**   
****

_--un--_

She loves Milan, especially at winter. It smells of cigars and tastes of the pumpkin soup the signora serves her whenever she stops by at dinnertime. The tobacco fragrance lingers in the air around _Porta Genova_, and she picks it up as soon as she approaches the railroads. If ever a tourist stopped her to ask for directions to _Osteria dei Binari_, she'd tell them to follow the unmistakable aroma; they couldn't miss the place. But no one ever asks. 

The trattoria, invariably packed with locals, has remained the neighborhood's secret for over a hundred years. Only a handful of strangers make their way into the narrow alley behind the station, and then under an arched gate which reveals an unpretentious little eatery and an adjacent garden. When an unfamiliar face announces itself at the door, they're always welcomed with a respectful nod from the regulars and the owners, for only a truly sophisticated nose can detect the scent of the delicatessen served in the trattoria. 

When Sydney first walked into _Osteria_, she was seated at a round table by the window and unceremoniously poured a glass of _Dolcetto_. She sipped it slowly, torn between taking in the decor and returning the smiles of the local eighty year olds who were banished to the garden by the signora because she didn't want their cigar smoke to permeate the air inside. Sydney has always been silently grateful for that; despite her extensive travels she never had a chance to get accustomed to the Europeans' relaxed smoking habits, so un-American in their public consent. 

That first afternoon, she spent two hours reveling in the fin de siècle furnishings, dark wood paneling, and old-fashioned lamps which still looked much as they must have when the eatery opened a hundred years ago. The next day she returned in the morning, and has been coming back ever since, exchanging greetings with the regulars and picking on the samples of local cheeses signor Rossi leaves for her on her table. There's _gorgonzola_, _stracchino_, _taleggio_, _bel paese_, _groveira_, and a generous piece of fresh _mascarpone_, her guilty pleasure since it's unsalted cow's cheese containing almost ninety percent of fat. The treat comes at its price that has nothing to do with calories: a conversation with the signor who enjoys her smile almost as much as her questions about the _cucina_ and the risotto and the homemade _orecchiette_. Yet, it's a price she pays with delight, carefully allowing the accent she shouldn't have to color her Italian for the signor to laugh and attempt to correct her pronunciation. Before she knows it, the regulars join in the laughter and the exasperated signora Rossi comes out of the kitchen to begrudge her husband for keeping signorina Sydney from eating a proper breakfast and to chase the cigar smokers back to the garden. 

Only then does Sydney finally sit down at her usual table, requesting the signor to bring her some oven-fresh bread and a light _insalata esotica_, a delectable mix of avocado, chicken, rice and papaya; or, if she's especially ravenous, she asks the signora to make her an early helping of a saffron-flavoured _risotto alla Milanese_. After the meal, she lingers at the table for hours over a book and an espresso, or daydreams, undisturbed by the mild ripple of conversation. 

She marvels often, quietly, counting the unexpected blessings of her new found freedom. The trattoria and its patrons, the Rossis, the squeaky chair by the small round table in the corner and the glass of _Dolcetto_ are all tangible tokens of a smile no longer askew with concern, and of laughter finally free of the tinge of bitterness, and of thoughts unburdened by what ifs. She doesn't think she ever breathed more freely, now that the shuddering intakes of air don't punctuate her life anymore. 

Of course, there are shadows looming just outside the comforting haven of the _Osteria_, and sometimes she lets them in, when her thoughts stray to her mother, and to the books of the Before, loss and ache seared into every other page. Usually, the phantoms leave as abrubtly as they appear, chased away by a glint of light reflecting off the wine glass, but then there are times when they persist, seething and unforgiving. She never runs, but quietly battles for every inch of the safe harbour of the trattoria.   


_--due--_

Signora Rossi recognizes at once that signorina Sydney finds comfort in her solitary afternoons at the small round table in the corner. The signora is the last person to argue the benefits of a quiescent hour, but if the hour is too long it might welcome unwanted guests of doubt and regret, of which, signora reckons, the signorina has seen enough. Gloominess is a parton long banished from the _Osteria_ by signora Rossi, she'd much rather see signorina's cheeks dimple in a smile, just like they do when she spots the cheese platter as she walks in in the morning; or when she's laughing, the way she does when the patrons tease her about her flawed accent. 

If the business is especially slow, the signora emerges from her kitchen and, if she spots signorina Sydney immersed in thought, joins her at the table with a bottle of fruity _Dolcetto d'Alba_, which she considers a remedy to all ailments, that of the body and of the heart. Age, experience and observation have taught signora Rossi that there is no more effective medicine than conversation about things of no consequence, and that nothing counters the bitter taste of unpleasant memories better than one sip of the "little sweet one." _Osteria_'s patrons would tell signorina Sydney that it wasn't at all coincidental that the glass of wine that appeared in front her when she first walked into the trattoria was the _Dolcetto_ - the signor poured it, but the signora selected it - for one look from the young signorina's eyes spoke of recent loss. 

Signora Rossi considers it her personal victory when, after several minutes of a quiet chat, signorina's face brightens - but if Sydney's laughter resounds in the trattoria, signora attributes it to the wine. After hours the signora tells her husband that the loss in signorina Sydney's life is only another side to the freedom that she gained in return and that while their young friend mourns what's slipped away from her life, it's a price she paid willingly. The signor shakes his head and laughs, asking his wife how she could possibly know this, but in the morning he makes sure that there is a platter of signorina's favorite cheeses waiting for her on her table. 

Little does Sydney know that signor Rossi worries. He reminds signora that the little round table by the window has been long coveted by an old patron of _Osteria_ and that he's bound to return with the spring time. Signora brushes her husband's concerns aside. Spring is still months away, and who knows how long the signorina will remain in Milan; but if the two shall meet, she is sure they will go along famously. They're both such nice _giovani persone_, cultured, sophisticated. And both _stranieri_, too. What trouble can there be? Signor sighs - _forse_ - and makes the signora promise that she'll mention _il giovane signor_ to signorina Sydney if she's still here in March. Signorina should be prepared for the unexpected presence at her table. 

Signora Rossi has every intention to keep her promise. But the spring comes early this year and, with the sun and the warmth, the garden is filled with cigar affectionados and the kitchen is kept busy. One day signorina arrives later than usual, but as always takes her time in the garden, exchanging pleasantries with the toothless locals who flirt with her in a true Italian fashion. Signor spots her through the window, and rushes to meet her before she steps inside, but she's quicker and they bump into each other in the doorway. Her surprised chuckle drowns out signor's whisper, but before he has a chance to repeat his request he feels signorina go still. 

_E cosí inizia._   


_--tre--_

Letting go _is_ a wonderful thing. But the blond ghost from her past is sitting at _her _table and there is only so much she's willing to excuse. 

Before she has a chance to speak, however, he looks up from a newspaper he's holding and stiffens in swiftly masked astonishment. The measure of control he exhibits instantly reminds her just who she is looking at. Her instinctive indignation at seeing her favorite table occupied evaporates and is replaced with caution. 

She hasn't seen him in over a year, not since he disappeared in the Ukrainian woods, leaving behind a burning skeleton of a warehouse and of their tied up past. She hadn't yet known it then, but she would sever the last links to her former life only weeks later. Francie was dead, and so was her mother; Will was forced into witness protection by becoming entangled with affairs his friendship with her led him to. Her already degenerating relationship with Vaughn failed weathering her grim errand. Every time he looked at her, she saw him struggling to recognize the woman he fell in love with in the vigilante who had set out to take her mother's life. They broke up soon after, almost wordlessly, even though she was tempted to ask if it was her failure to follow protocol that so tainted her in his eyes. She didn't ask, though, perhaps apprehensive that she would hear his cynical reminder that he hadn't been doing things by the book since she'd gatecrashed into his life. 

Her father was the only tangible loss, the only regrettable fallout from her wayward undertaking. All his love for his daughter and all his spite for his wife considered, bringing forth Derevko's death was an act he could condone, but not consign to oblivion. Jack's feelings for Irina were equal parts hate and love, those same feelings creating a consuming need to see her dead as much as alive. His daughter taking Irina out of the equation engendered a sense of destitution. Sydney couldn't decide whether her father resented that she'd effectively killed her mother or that she'd kept him out of the loop. When she resigned from the CIA, she was astounded to hear that he'd asked to be sent on a deep cover assignment instead of retiring the world that they both despised. Instinct told her that his reasons had something to do with the necessity to release - or perhaps redirect - the hostility-fueled energy that had been penting up in him since Irina's walk-in. She almost felt sorry for the bad guys that were going to be on the receiving end. 

He assured her that he would find her when he resurfaced, but it'd been over a year ago. She knows she can informally contact Weiss to inquire about her father's status, but she doesn't. She prefers to think the assignment turned out more long term than anyone had suspected rather than be told that her father was killed. 

If she envisaged a specter of her past materializing in Milan, it would be Jack Bristow. Instead, she's facing her one-time opponent turned unexpected ally. An onset of questions rushes through her mind in the split second between the glint of recognition and her weighed verbal reaction. How did he find her? Was he looking? Why? What agenda brought him here? 

Does he have agendas, still? 

Her reason reminds her to assume nothing, and before she has a chance to hang onto the thought, another arises, a memory, and her eyes are immediately drawn to his hair. A jolt of surprise causes her pupils to widen slightly; he notices, and remembers, too. If the memory means anything, he covers it, his reaction a response to her astonishment instead. 

He smirks - and she instantly recalls just how badly she always wanted to wipe that smirk off his face. 

"Dear Sydney," he speaks before she has a chance to give in to the impulse, "would you care to join me or shall I tell you where you can find my stylist?" 

Her gaze narrows, the reason for her annoyance unrelated to his taunt, but rather to something she yet refuses to acknowledge. She's poised to bark a comment both cynical and belligerent when he puts the newspaper down and gets up to pull a chair away from the table, indicating she should sit down. She examines his expression but it's unreadable, familiar in its politeness, but alien now that the trademark smirk has disappeared. He raises his brows quizzically, seeing her indecision, and it suddenly hits her that he's inviting her to join him at _her_ table. 

She quickly steps up to the chair and sits down, but before she has a chance to speak, an enthused voice chimes in. 

"Ah, _molto buono_! You already know each other! _Che la sorpresa!_" signor Rossi - who hasn't moved an inch from his spot in the doorway and has seen everything that's transpired - clasps his palms together in contentment. "Signorina Sydney, the regular, _sì_? Right away, I'll bring it right away. I have to tell my wife. She will be overjoyed, oh, will she just be—" 

The signor scurries away, oblivious to his patrons' bewildered reaction to his unexpected outburst of delight. Sark recovers first, arching an eyebrow and curving his mouth into a small smile at the expression on Sydney's face. 

"I should have guessed that your presence here is neither coincidence nor strategy," he comments, "but rather—" 

"An indication of good taste?" she interrupts him mid-sentence. "Aren't you complimenting your own judgment?" 

He shrugs nonchalantly. "Well, if I am, dear Sydney, then let me also point out that I had found this place first." 

She shakes her head in feigned amusement. "What is this, Sark? A kids' contest? Should we call dibs?" 

He leans in, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Would you like to? You do seem to be very possessive of this, rather unremarkable I daresay, piece of furniture." 

"Perhaps if I had had time to do sightseeing every time I had come to Milan, this table would bear my name, instead of - as you seem to be insinuating - yours. However, I was usually otherwise occupied," she says, deadpan. "Obviously, though, international terrorists enjoy their liberties," she hisses. 

And she regrets it immediately. 

His face darkens, but after a moment of stillness he inclines his head in a nod. _Touché_. 

She watches him withdraw into his chair and pick up the newspaper. Despite herself, she curses her incivility and realizes why the tone of his opening remarks bothered her - considering their last encounter, she expected more of him, and, seeing the taciturn expression on his face, more of herself. She doesn't know what she's more chagrined about: him opting to greet her with the sarcastic banter that she expected would remain in their past, or her own righteous censure, which seemed such a petty choice in light of the unspoken understanding they had reached amidst the burning Ukrainian evergreens. 

Perhaps she doesn't owe him any courtesy, but this certainly isn't the way of going about things when one has decided to let go. She never expected to see him again, and chances are she never might after today. But she hasn't held grudges since she left the CIA - quite liberating, really - and she's not looking forward to any replay of her past experiences. She might never be friends with her former menace, but she doesn't need any adversaries either. She's had her share of fiends to last her a lifetime. 

She opts for a remark that will guarantee agreeable results. 

"For a man who claims to have such refined taste, you sure have exhibited questionable judgment when it comes to your current haircut," she says evenly. 

She sees him crack a small smile before he even raises his eyes from above the newspaper. 

"I don't seem to remember claiming any such thing, Sydney, so allow me to accept the compliment." He gives her a short courteous nod. "As for the haircut you find so displeasing, it was a measure of necessity, I'm afraid," he adds and calmly returns to his reading. 

Enigmatic remarks. How very Sark. He effectively piques her interest by failing to offer any further explanation, and he knows it just as well as he knows that she will not inquire about it. There are only so many things they're both willing to give up in their verbal exchanges. 

She briefly wonders whether his shorn head is a result of incarceration or surgery. She doesn't notice any scars, fresh or long-healed, marring the skin, and she cannot think of any other reason for an obligatory crew cut. A plate of _insalata esotica_ and a glass of wild berry juice appear in front of her right then, and she looks up to see signor Rossi grinning widely. 

"My wife asked to tell signorina that she will save the _Dolcetto_ for another day," he whispers confidentially, glancing at Sark, who quizzically raises an eyebrow. 

She chooses to ignore him and thanks the signor, who's called away to another table. Company or not, she decides to enjoy her usual routine. There are several cups of espresso she sips over a book; there is the cheese sampler the signor brings from the kitchen; there are some familiar faces that arrive at lunchtime, disrupting her reading with amicable greetings before noticing the other presence at the table and exclaiming in surprise. The welcome back Sark receives each time is unfailingly warm, even enthused, as if he is an old acquaintance fondly missed. She wonders just how regular a patron of the trattoria he is, but doesn't ask, predicting that she will find out all about it from signora Rossi. 

*** 

It's close to one in the afternoon when he folds his newspaper and saunters over to the kitchen from where he emerges ten minutes later with a plate of _rognone di vitello_, veal kidneys with broccoli and berries. She recognizes signora's trademark dish and, for a second, entertains the thought that he was allowed to make it himself before remembering that signora Rossi would not let anyone touch anything in her _cucina_, especially not her specialty. She accounts for the time he spent there by guessing that he must have been keeping signora company. She eyes the tan jacket he wears and is astonished that he risked grease stains for conversation. 

But of course there's not a speck of dirt on him. 

She returns to her book, only once distracted by the soft clang of silverware. Her eyes are drawn to his hands, long slender fingers gripping the knife and the fork, moving over the plate almost leisurely. It's a sight almost alluring until she remembers seeing those same fingers wrapped around much more lethal objects and averts her eyes. He never notices. 

He next disturbs her reading when he puts away an empty wine glass and quietly clears his throat while wiping his mouth with a white handkerchief that he pulled out from a pocket. He catches signor Rossi's gaze and nods with a small appreciative smile before turning to look at her. He inclines his head again, courteously, gets up and leaves. 

She watches as he walks away, wondering whether he didn't ask for a check because signor Rossi runs his tab or because the meal was on the house. If it's the former, she'll see him again. If the latter, then, well, perhaps the table will be all hers again. 

She looks away from the window and spots signor Rossi watching her curiously. She's sure he has many questions just as she is sure he'll never inquire. 

*** 

He's there when she returns the next day, and the following, and the weeks after that. 

He invariably sits at the same little round table by the window, and she always joins him. What little she has gleaned from signora Rossi informed her that he's been a patron of _Osteria_ for four years, always disappearing before the onset of summer and the hordes of tourists flocking into Milan, and always returning with springtime. 

Occasionally, she's there before him. He's never there much later, announcing his entrance with a civil "_Buon giorno_," and taking his seat next to her, newspaper in his hand. At times he doesn't come at all, and she ignores the logic explaining his absence. He's invariably back the following day. 

Unlike the first time, they barely converse anymore, exchanging only sporadic remarks she cannot recall later. Before long she becomes so accustomed to his presence that the usual sounds coming from his direction fail to disrupt her reverie. He always leaves first, acknowledging her before he does. 

Signor and signora Rossi and the trattoria's regulars are miffed. Two _giovani stranieri_, who obviously know each other, _sofisticate_ - _belle_! The Italians cannot imagine a more perfect invitation to romance. Sydney remains oblivious to her hosts' and the patrons' puzzlement; if her thoughts ever stray it's to her unobtrusive companion and the questions she never asks him.   


_--quattro--_

If signorina Sydney lingers late, the signora produces a bottle of _Dolcetto_ and engages her in their inconsequential chat. The young signor is rarely brought up and never by the signora, who considers discretion a measure of a good hostess. Signora Rossi prefers to rely on her own perspective skills in matters delicate and personal. When her husband inquires, she reminds him what she told him about the loss that signorina Sydney had experienced, and adds that signor Sark is a thread running through it, uninvited but inescapable, like his presence at the table. Signor Rossi protests spiritedly: the signorina manifests no resentfulness towards her companion, nor is he overbearing, _al contrario_; they both seem comfortable in each other's presence, amicable! Signora Rossi's smile is enigmatic when she tells her husband that the history of the world is woven with tales of unwanted guests becoming envoys of much needed change. 

The signor sighs, resigned. Other people's secrets are as safe with signora Rossi as her family recipes. But when the afternoon hour is quiet, he perches himself on a tall stool behind the wooden counter, and - ostensibly busying himself with wiping the tall wine glasses dry - watches the quiet pair at the small round table. She's always slightly hunched over a book, loose strands obscuring her face despite her absent-minded efforts to tuck them behind her ears. Occasionally, she reaches for her coffee cup, or the wine glass, takes a sip and puts her drink back on the table, all without looking up from her reading. He is always sitting up, his back straight against the chair, and his shoulders only slightly down. Signor rarely catches him glancing at the signorina, and when he does, the young man's face is ever unreadable, quite unlike hers when she gives him an occasional glance, her expression always colored with unspoken wonder. Signor Rossi watches them carefully, looking for any indication of the labyrinthine affairs his wife alluded to, but his young patrons give away nothing above a sense of ease that he reckons should feel out of place, all things considered, yet doesn't. 

Signorina's wonder-filled glances tell signor Rossi that he is right, at least on this account. 

Signor Sark's eyes betray nothing. 

It is his actions, one rainy morning, that tell the signor all he needs to know.   


_--cinque--_

The cobbled street still glistens with rainwater, but she guesses the sun will dry it matte before the afternoon. It was still drizzling when she woke up this morning, and although she loves the fragrant rains of early May, she welcomes the shy sunshine finally dispersing the persistent clouds. 

It's late when she leaves her apartment, but she lives only a five minute walk away from _Osteria_ and she's confident she'll reach it before the onset of the lunch hour, much busier now than in wintertime. 

She hears laughter and cheering when she nears the trattoria, and she guesses that with the return of the sun, another customer must have challenged signor Rossi to a game of _bocce_. She picks up the pace, hoping to catch a round before signora Rossi comes hollering for her husband to return to his duties. Only newcomers and incidental tourists don't know any better than to dare the restaurateur to a game of balls. The rules are simple - if you win you eat for free; if you lose you pay double - and in all the games she's seen played in the past two months, the signor won all but three. Sark was one of the lucky three, although in his case luck had nothing to do with victory and everything to do with skill, unsurprisingly. 

When she rounds the corner and enters the garden she discovers, astonished, that signor Rossi is nowhere to be seen. The signor won't miss a game of _bocce_ if he can help it, often choosing to participate in the general merriment instead of teaching credulous fools a thing about daring an unknown opponent. Rain has prevented the games for almost a week, so she expects that nothing but a fuming signora could keep the signor away from the garden now that the sun is shining again. 

Before she can venture a guess at just how aggravated signora Rossi must be for her husband not to dare step out of the trattoria, she spots the restaurateur in the doorway, frantically signaling her to come inside. 

The expression on his face speaks of great distress. 

"_Che è successo_, Signore Rossi?" she asks, rushing towards him, but he silences her with a jerk. He grabs her elbow and wordlessly guides her through the dining room and towards the small stony arch in the back, the one leading to the wine cellar. Shielded from the inquisitive eyes, he reaches into his pocket and extends a hand holding a small white envelope. 

"Signorina," he whispers, the expression on his face somber, "I— This is for you." 

She eyes the envelope uneasily, trying to suppress a cold shiver of apprehension creeping up her spine. 

This is all too familiar. And completely unwelcome. 

She steps back. 

"No, I—" Aghast, she extends her arm, palm up and fingers splayed wide, in a gesture of refusal. 

Signor Rossi hastily grabs her hand and squeezes, hard. 

"Signorina, you must," he pleads, his face ashen, "_per favore_!" 

The alarm bells in her head toll a grave warning, all instinct telling her to run before her past catches up with her. It's already too late, however. Her training kicks in, her mind begins to compartmentalize the shock, her reason whirs to attention, ready to process and react accordingly to whatever is in the envelope. Her body - pre-programmed, seasoned - is on standby, already purged of shock-induced tension. 

She realizes, dismayed, that she is still, after all that time, a well-oiled machine. 

Her hands are firm when she grabs the envelope and opens it. The note is short, a sentence, two addresses and a name signed on the bottom. She looks up from the piece of paper, her gaze sharp, her jaw set. 

"When did you get this?" she snaps, her tone laden with ice, eyes dark. 

Signor Rossi recoils noticeably, but answers hurriedly. "_Ieri,_ signorina." 

Yesterday. 

She's perfectly still for a moment, the flexing muscle in her jaw the only indication of her state of mind. The signor, wide-eyed, watches her, exuding distress. 

Later, she will tell herself that it was the worry in his expression that propelled her to action. 

She allows herself only a second to put a reassuring hand on signor Rossi's shoulder before she bolts for the door. 

This time she finally notices what her mind failed to register earlier. 

There's no one sitting at the small round table in the corner.   


_--sei--_

Bastard. 

How dare he, the presumptuous smug son of a bitch. 

She runs, fuming. 

She's still fuming when she reaches the first address, retrieves a key from under an unusually shaped rock and unlocks the door to find a small stash of arms, back-up ammunition, and enough gear and gadgets to single-handedly hold up the Bank of England. 

The gall of the sly little—! 

By the time she reaches the second address, little of her indignation has evaporated. 

She knows better than to enter the church through the main entrance. The alley on the right side of the church is deserted and dark even at noon, the high stony walls on both sides blocking the sun. Despite the dimness, it only takes her a moment to spot an unassuming wooden door up ahead. It's the _porta scara_, a private entrance used by the clergy. The pick she has brought with her turns out to be unnecessary as the heavy lock is busted, the door slightly ajar. 

She slowly inches into the darkness inside, suppressing the lingering annoyance to clear her thoughts. The high stained glass windows let only faint light in, but enough for her to be able to notice blankets of dust covering the marble floor and the pews. The main sanctuary has been stripped of anything movable, including paintings and detachable statues. Only gilded carvings and the stained windows indicate the past glory of the church. 

She switches on the small flashlight that came with the gear, and directs it at the floor, the beam revealing a pattern of footsteps in the cover of dust. There are at least three, maybe four, discernible shoe marks, all leading towards the back of the church. 

At the base of the rear wall, a stone partition juts out concealing a narrow passageway. She scans the recesses of the church for any indication of movement, but everything is perfectly still, including the fetid air. Reaching into a pocket on her right thigh and pulling out a gun, she carefully moves towards the bulwark, surveying the murky chapels on both sides. 

When she reaches the partition, she realizes that the arched passageway it conceals cuts directly into the foundations of the church. Keeping one hand on the wall, she inches inside. The wall curves left and opens into a dim semicircular alcove. 

Despite the dimness, she makes out an outline of a body. 

She approaches with caution, the gun pointed at the human heap on the floor. 

It's not moving. 

Another step closer and the beam of her flashlight reveals short blond hair darkened with congealed blood. 

She drops to her knees and puts down the gun. The gush on his forehead is only deep enough to knock him out, not kill. If he had received a fatal wound, this was not it. His body is enveloped in darkness, her flashlight discarded with her gun. She starts groping around his chest, sliding hands beneath his jacket, and when she finds nothing, she pats down his thighs for any signs of blood. 

Nothing. 

She quickly checks his pulse. It's faint, but it's there. 

Lucky bastard. 

She dials for an ambulance. 

*** 

An hour later Doctor Gualdieri informs her that signor Sark has suffered a serious concussion, and that he might not regain consciousness for several days, and even if he wakes up tomorrow, he will not be allowed to leave the hospital for at least two weeks. 

When the nurses inquire about medical insurance, she makes up a first name and tells them that the bill will be paid in cash. Sark won't even notice the dent in his bank account. 

She hesitates in the hospital lobby, wondering whether she should call signor Rossi and put his mind at ease, or go to the _Osteria_ to do it personally and finally get something to eat. She opts to do the latter, hoping that the signor would shed some more light onto how Sark's note found its way into his hands. 

Five minutes later doctor Gualdieri finds her still lingering in the lobby. 

"Ah, Signora Bristow?" he speaks, snapping her out of her reverie. "Signor Sark has been moved to a room in the intensive care." 

"Signorina," she corrects him automatically, eyes fixed on the revolving door. 

"Signorina," the doctor repeats with an apologetic nod. "You can see him if you wish, but only for a couple of minutes," he continues, eyeing the young woman curiously. 

She turns to look at him, brows creased. 

"No," she says, finally, and turns to leave. 

She pauses just before she reaches the door. "When he comes to—" 

"We'll call the number you left with us," his tone is reassuring although also tinged with a hint of perplexity. 

She nods a thank you, and leaves, attributing the sensation in her stomach to hunger. 

*** 

She finds she has no need to press Signor Rossi for answers; the restaurateur is so relieved to hear of Sark's recovery that he speaks without prompting. The signora, as comforted by the news as her husband, fusses about setting the table for an early dinner. 

"Signor Sark approached me yesterday, just as he arrived," the signor shoots an apologetic look towards his wife, who obviously didn't have any idea about what happened until Sydney left the trattoria so abruptly earlier that day. "He handed me the envelope and asked me to give it to signorina in case he didn't show up in _Osteria_ on the following morning. When he didn't—" the signor unfolds his hands. That's all there is to it. 

Signora Rossi's eyes twinkle when she looks at the young signorina and her unusual attire, but doesn't say anything. There's much more to it, obviously, but it's not her place to say. 

Sydney falls silent. She knows that her hosts have many questions, but she cannot offer any explanation. The regard the Rossis have for the blond Brit is absurd and she has to remind herself that the courteous young man with excellent taste is the only Sark they know. 

It's the only Sark _she_ has known for the past several months, and while it shouldn't change anything, it has, or, at least, it did until he decided to leave her that note. 

_Since you're reading this, I'm hoping you'll save my life_. 

Instead of examining her reasons for doing what she did, she goes home and dreams of an empty chair at the small round table in the corner. 

*** 

She brings newspapers to the hospital and leaves them by his bedside. 

On the third day doctor Gualdieri's call finds her in the trattoria. 

When she walks into the room they've moved him to, he looks no different than the day before, a wide bandage wrapped around his head, his skin appearing paler than usual against the hospital issue sheets and white walls. The only difference is the silence, the constant and rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor gone. 

His instincts are as sharp as ever. He opens his eyes before she closes the door behind her. 

His voice croaks when he speaks, the sound unsettling. 

"Thank you." 

She regards him coolly. "For the newspapers?" 

His lips curve in return. She steps closer to the bed. 

"Don't ever do it again," she warns him, her voice hard as steel, and he knows she doesn't mean almost getting himself killed. 

He nods, once, and looks away. A hospital bed and bandages speak of weakness. 

There are things that will never change.   


_--sette--_

During the next several days, Signor Rossi often finds himself wiping all the glasses dry twice. 

Seemingly, nothing has changed. Every day, signorina Sydney arrives early as usual, sits by the small round table in the corner, asks for her _insalata _and her espresso, and opens her book. The signor doesn't need his wife's perceptive skills to notice, however, that it takes at least three times as long for the signorina to turn a page. 

Every day, signora Rossi comes out of her _cucina_, and asks the signorina about signor Sark's recovery. 

"He's fine," signorina Sydney replies politely every time, an obliging smile briefly brightening her face. 

On the fourth day after signor Sark's accident, signora Rossi brings a bottle of Dolcetto from the cellar, but the wine never cajoles signorina Sydney to utter more than a soft thank you, and the signora doesn't press. 

On the sixth day, when her husband inquires, signora Rossi tells him that uninvited guests often become companions and that some revelations can be only learned in their absence. The signor knows better than to ask his wife to divulge what signorina Sydney has learned during the last few days. Instead, he perches himself on the tall stool and wipes the glasses dry again, counting the pages the signorina turns. 

On the eighth day, before he can count a single page, the signorina gets up. When she pays for her meal, signora Rossi hands her a bag of almond biscotti for signor Sark and asks her to give him their best. 

Signorina Sydney promises, and leaves, her fingers tightly wrapped around the paper bag. 

On the tenth day signor Rossi finds her book forgotten on the small round table in the corner.   


_--otto-_

On the tenth day he asks her if she would go home with him. 

She says yes. 

--------------------------------------   
i have been through mire and confusion   
i am free   
as far as I can see 


	2. Author's Notes

**Author's Notes for "Like Time"**   
**** __

_--dedicazione--_

For **Ellen**, aka **eretria**. Because she's become a dearest friend very quickly, and because she has one of the most generous hearts in the world. 

Close to six months ago Ellen interviewed Sark of "Aflame". She asked him: "Are you planning on seeing Agent Bristow again, now that you're both free agents?" 

Sark answered, taciturn, "I have seen Agent Bristow since then, yes. I believe Joanna is planning on telling that story as well, however, and so I'll leave it to her." 

"Like Time" is the story of which he speaks.   


_--grazie--_

There are sereval people to whom I owe a great debt of gratitude for this piece. 

**Ellen,** who bought me a thesaurus only to get me to write, and whose questions, when she feedbacked "Aflame" sparked the idea for this little story: _I know that I have a burning desire to see what happens afterwards, to see how they will react when they meet again. Will he drop his cocky mask around her? Will she ever let him this close to her again? _I hope I answered at least some of these. 

**Rez**, who let me whine and bitch and, instead of slapping me silly, listened and supported. For that, and for showing me how to battle the demons of the POV, as wells as helping when words escaped me. 

**Karen**, for her beta and advice. I am lucky to have you. 

Also, the countless Live Journal friends, who pried, and prodded, and encouraged, especialy **Amy**, for the best cheerleading job I've seen. You all cannot imagine what your support meant to me. 

Lastly, to all Sarkney writers, who showed me what quality, imagination and brilliancy is, and that we don't have to look for it on _New York Times'_ bestseller list. You are _all_ fabulous, and I'm proud when you count me as one of you.   


_--la storia--_

"Like Time" is a sequel to "Aflame", but it was never meant to be. It was originally part of a much larger story arc, one that has gone awfully awry, first when Sydney and Sark insisted that they last saw each other in the burning Ukrainian forest, and then when they started behaving in ways that were completely unfitting for the original concept. 

"Like Time" was merely a flashback chapter which took us out of _medias res_, and clarified how we got there. But it grew and grew and grew, and soon became longer than all other chapters of the story altogether. It was also much better than everything else, and, thus, emerged as a stand alone. 

The rest of the story waits to be told and eventually will be, and hopefully, I won't have you wait another year.   


_--crediti--_

The **title** of the story is taken from a verse of a song. The song is performed by a Polish artist, Lzy, and is entitled "Oczy Szeroko Zamkniete" ("Eyes Wide Shut"). I have listened to this song constantly while writing the second half od the story, it was a great inspiration. The line, translated, goes as follows: 

_like time, charmed into a drop of amber gold_

I thought it was a wonderful metaphor for the _Osteria_ and its timeless atmosphere. 

The **quote **at the end of the story (_i have been through mire and confusion/i am free/as far as I can see_) comes from the lyrics of the a song by Dishwalla. The song is entitled "Nashville Skyline". _Mire and Confusion_ were the original title of the story when it was still a flashback chapter of a larger whole. 

The **message** Sark left Sydney (_Since you're reading this, I'm hoping you'll save my life_.) has been worded by Rez, when I was at a loss for new ideas. The original message was much more awkward.   


_--i luoghi, etc.--_

Since the bunny started bouncing, I knew this story would be set in Milan, Italy. 

_Osteria dei Binari_, the trattoria that is such a favorite of both Sark and Sydney, does exist in Milan and really _is_ located near the _Porta Genova _railroad station. It really is habituated by the eighty year olds who live in the neighborhood, but, is hardly a neighbourhood's secret. It's very famous in Milan and suit-and-tie businessmen come from miles away to try the regional cooking it features. Pumpkin soup _is_ one of its trademark dishes, and if the sun is out you _can_ challenge the cook to a game of bocce - and the rules are the same: if you win you will eat free, if you lose you pay double. 

The interior of the actual Osteria doesn't match my desription, it was first inspired by the photo you can see in the corner of this page. 

All dishes and foods mentioned in the story are Milanese specialities, including the cheeses Sydney is so fond of. _Dolcetto d'Alba_ is one of the most popular wines in the area, its wines are planted on tens of thousands square meters of local vineyards. Its name does translate into "little sweet one". 

The Rossis, however, are entirely my invention. But I like to think that there are restaurateurs in Italy that would match the description.   


_--le parole.--_

The story utilizes some Italian, which I left untranslated, since I felt that the phrases were so generic and/or similar to English, you wouldn't have trouble understanding the meaning. In case you did, here's a small dictionary: 

_giovani person_e – young people   
_stranieri_ - foreigners   
_forse _- perhaps   
_il giovane signor _– young mister   
_E cosí inizia_ – so it begins   
_molto buono!_ – very good   
_Che la sorpresa! _– what a surprise   
_sì? _– yes?   
_buon giorno _– good morning   
_belle_ - beautiful   
_Che è successo?_ – what happened?   
_per favore_ – please 

-------------------------------------- 


End file.
